Latymer (7 page)

“I don’t understand why you were looking for Townsend.”

“We suspected he was somehow involved in the abuse that was going on at Abbingale Home.”

He was quiet a moment. “By ‘we,’ do you mean this agency you work for?”

“Yes.”

“So, you thought Townsend—I—was a potential criminal.”

“Yes.”

“Which is why your brother brought a pistol to my chamber at the inn that night and then drew the weapon when he recognized me. Luckily, I had my pistol already drawn when I opened the door. I acted in self-defense, which means your hatred is unwarranted.”

“‘Unwarranted’?” Mac fired back. “My brother was everything that’s good in this godforsaken city, whereas you are a traitor, a manipulator, and a murderer. There is no room for people like you in this world.”

“I’m also a father. Aside from the last few weeks, I’ve been a good father to my son. You might not want me alive, but Giles does. And I’m going to see that he gets his wish.”

GILES

4:51 a.m.

After making one wrong turn, I rounded the last corner, and Somerton House came into view. I paused for a moment, catching my breath. Relief welled up in my throat, taut and aching. Joy soon followed. If I hadn’t been so terrified of drawing attention to myself, I would have whooped with laughter.

My relief turned into uneasiness when I realized I’d been standing out in the open for too long. I hurried past the entrance to the nearest town house and darted down the steps leading to the servants’ entrance. Protected by a wrought-iron railing, the servants’ stairwell provided a perfect lookout point.

Holding my cup and ball in one hand, I grabbed the black, dew-covered bars with my other and pressed my face close. Cold seeped into my fingers and cheeks, keeping me alert. I scanned the pavement and street outside Somerton House for the beggar I had seen earlier, even though Papa said the man was not really a beggar at all. But there was no sign of him now.

I still didn’t know what to make of what Papa had said. If the man wasn’t a beggar, why had he been sleeping on the ground? It made no sense. Sometimes it was impossible to understand grown-ups, especially when they spoke in riddles and nodded their heads, expecting me to understand their secret code.

My gaze fell on the first-floor window of Somerton House. Lamplight glowed behind the sheer curtains. I squinted, trying to see inside, but my angle was no good.

The thought of emerging from my hiding place made my heart race and my legs jittery. But Papa could be inside waiting for me. Why else would Lord Somerton be up at this hour? It’s so early that the birds haven’t even begun to chirp yet.

Tamping down my fear, I released my grip on the bars and began to ascend the steps. The moment I set my foot on the pavement, a carriage appeared around the corner. I stumbled back into the shadows, slamming my body against the side of the house. My breath wheezed from my lungs.

I followed the carriage’s slow progress as it passed my position. In the open window, a pretty woman’s profile appeared. The woman with the empty eyes. Clutching my toy to my chest, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to make myself as small as possible. For some reason Papa didn’t want me around her, and after the intent way she had looked at me before, I didn’t want to be near her, either. 

A full minute later, I could no longer hear the rattle of her carriage wheels. I made a fist with my free hand, preparing for battle. Slowly, I opened one eye, then the other.

Alone. My body sagged against the wall. For the first time, I didn’t mind being alone. Careful not to make a sound, I peered through the bars again. The carriage continued to lumber down the street until it was a mere speck in the distance.

Would the French lady return? Did she know Lord Somerton, or was her appearance a coincidence? A dozen more questions pelted my thoughts, but no answers surfaced.

There was nothing for it. I had to follow Papa’s instructions and hope all went well.

Bolstering my courage once again, I moved out of the protective shadows and into the lamplight. Knees knocking, I lifted my chin and took my first steps into the street…and into disaster.

MAC

4:57 a.m.

Mac stared down into the soft, gentle eyes of the only woman he had ever loved. Amelia Cartwright stood before him in the Hunt Agency’s entrance hall, fully dressed and with only a hint of exhaustion marring her beautiful face.

“Have you not slept at all?” he asked.

“The same could be asked of you.”

He glanced up toward the living quarters. “Is Sydney here?” he asked, hoping his employer, Sydney Hunt, was just upstairs.

Amelia shook her head. “She left with Lord Danforth several hours ago—his lordship received a summons from the Earl of Somerton.”

“Any idea why?”

“No. His note didn’t indicate a reason, only a command to hurry.” She sent a wary glance toward the drawing room. “Harry should be out front with your horse by now. I’ll be fine here.”

He followed the direction of her gaze. Inside, an unconscious Latymer sprawled on Sydney’s favorite lavender sofa. Mac had half dragged, half carried the traitor in a short while ago. The situation was reminiscent of when Cameron Adair had brought his dying brother, Mick, home. The memory turned Mac’s stomach. “You’ve sent for Adair?”

She nodded. “Yes, though I’m not sure that was the right decision. Surely we could have found someone else to guard Lord Latymer until all this is over.”

He understood her caution regarding Adair. The man was too much of a mystery. He made no bones about the fact that his one true loyalty was to himself and himself alone. “Adair’s intimately involved in this situation now. To bring someone else in at this late hour would delay us even further. And there’s no way I can take Latymer with me in his condition.”

“Charlotte should be here any minute,” Amelia said, referring to her friend—a brilliant apothecary. She lowered her voice. “If the bullet has not caused irreparable damage, Charlotte will have him on the path to recovery in no time.”

Silence filled the space between them. Their last parting had been abrupt, emotional, and uncertain. In the aftermath of his brother’s death, Mac knew only a violent need to locate Latymer and kill him. All else, even his newfound feelings for Amelia, had not mattered in the turmoil of his grief.

Now, he knew a different driving need—to take her into his arms and kiss her senseless. To apologize for all the lost time and make up for bitter regrets. Mac ached for this woman, bone-deep and heart sore. Two feet separated them, yet the distance felt like an abyss with no end.

Before she came to work at the Hunt Agency, Amelia was forced to give her baby boy to the Foundling Hospital. From the moment Mac had uncovered Amelia’s secret, he’d steered clear of her. He feared that his years of pent-up hatred for what his own mother had done to him and his brother would eventually be taken out on her.

In the four years they’d worked together, he’d never once asked her why she’d placed her infant son in a home for orphans. He had never allowed himself to consider that a young, unwed mother, alone in the city, had precious few choices. It wasn’t until this last year that he’d permitted himself to focus on who the intelligent, beautiful woman was and not on the hard choices she’d had to make. 

The last few hours had brought clarity to his thoughts and reluctant understanding to his heart. For the first time in a long time, hope entered into his life again. Forcing back the pride that had kept them apart for so long, he asked, “Is it too late?”

She peered up at him with startled, skeptical eyes.

“For us?” he clarified.

“Mac, I—”

“Amelia, I was wrong. So wrong.” Wanting desperately to make things right between them, he clasped her hands between his own. “I’ve known for some time now that I was wrong, but I was too damned proud to admit my mistake. I should never have judged you so harshly.”

“Thank you, Mac.” She squeezed his hands and smiled a trembling, bittersweet smile. “The timing—”

He touched a finger to her cheek. “I know. The timing is all wrong, but when is it ever right? Things will get better. I promise.” Mac knew that over the past five years Amelia had scrimped and saved with the goal of reclaiming her son from the Foundling Hospital. “Your son will need—and deserve—all your attention.”

Stepping closer, she withdrew her hands from his grasp and pressed the soft, warm pad of her palm against his cheek. “Once Leo is settled into our new home, perhaps you could come to visit us.”

Emotion choked Mac’s throat, and he found it difficult to breathe. Again, covering her hand with his, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips against its center. Her sweet scent drenched his senses. “I will come. When you’re ready, I will come.”

She rose up on her tiptoes, and he bent low. Their lips met somewhere in the middle. Pulling her close, until their bodies aligned as one, Mac exulted in the storm rushing across his senses—warmth, softness, aching heat, desire, yearning, and love. He had never experienced anything so perfect, so pure, as Amelia’s kiss.

He wanted much more from her—for them. But with Latymer in the next room, even this stolen intimacy seemed too risky. Ending their kiss, he rested his forehead against hers. “I love you, Amelia.”

This time her smile was unalloyed joy. “I love you, too, Mac. I always have and I always will.”

Her declaration wrapped around him like the warmest blanket. 

The doorknocker slamming against the metal plate broke their reverie. Amelia jumped; her gaze flashed from the entry door to the drawing room.

Mac nudged her behind him before striding forward and snatching open the door. Cameron Adair stood under the portico. Tension cut deep into the thief-taker’s normally unruffled mien.

“Adair.” Mac stepped back to let him in. “What is happening?”

Rather than entering, Adair flicked his thumb over his shoulder. “Does that young man sprawled in the street belong to you?”

Mac rushed outside and Amelia followed.

“Harry!” Amelia exclaimed, seeing her young groom disheveled and trying to regain himself. “Is he all right?” she asked Charlotte Fielding, who had arrived at that moment and was in the process of helping the young man into a sitting position.

Reclining on the back of her heels, the apothecary said, “He has a nasty laceration on the back of his head. Other than a terrible headache, he’ll be fine.”

“Someone attacked you, Harry?” Amelia asked.

Harry nodded. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He pointed down the road. “He clubbed me good and stole your horse.”

Mac stared at the boy, uncomprehending. Slowly, the unwelcome meaning behind Harry’s words registered. Mac spun around, his mind screaming in disbelief. His gaze landed on the open drawing room window, and he knew immediately what he would find. Knew it to the depths of his gut-wrenching soul.

Fury surged inside him.
“Latymer!”

PART THREE

PROTECTIVE FATHER

LATYMER

5:22 a.m.

Within the next twelve hours, you’ll either die from a fever or a festered wound.

Latymer knew he had far less than the twelve hours O’Donnell had given him. The area around his gunshot wound pulsed with fiery heat, and his strength ebbed with every passing minute.

Escaping the Hunt Agency had been sheer luck. He had lulled O’Donnell into a false sense of security by feigning sleep. Then, when he’d heard the woman say a horse was out front, he’d known he had to give it a try. Not wanting to cause a sound, he’d avoided opening the window any farther. Contorting his body to slide through the narrow space had added greatly to his current agony.

Ignoring his physical discomfort, Latymer focused his sluggish thoughts on finding Giles. He had one more opportunity to do right by his son, and he’d be damned if he would fail him this time.

Up ahead, he spotted Charles Street and slowed his mount’s breakneck pace. He hoped to God, Giles had managed to find his way to Somerton’s. If he hadn’t, Latymer’s next move would become infinitely more complicated.

After turning onto Charles Street, he pulled up hard on his reins. Though dawn had yet to break, a milky gray promise of what was to come pushed against the darkness. It was enough light for Latymer to see his son a few hundred yards ahead. Giles was shaking his head as he backed away from the outstretched hand of a tall, black-haired lady. Somerton stood a few feet behind her.

Even from this distance, he could see concern written on the woman’s features. But his son’s reaction was not the reason his heart thrashed inside his chest. At that moment, a carriage rolled to a stop right behind Giles, and Collette emerged. 

Swiftly, she swept up behind his son, clamping her hands around Giles’s shoulders. She bent low to whisper something into his ear. In one smooth, sensuous move, she straightened and smiled at her audience.

Latymer doubted Somerton had ever met Collette before. That didn’t prevent Somerton’s initial bewilderment from transforming into murderous intent. Somerton rushed forward, moving the black-haired lady behind him. Three large men jumped down from the carriage and encircled their mistress. 

Collette’s arms snaked around his son’s torso. Giles shrank away from her touch, clutching his toy to his chest. Her smile only broadened.

The whole scene unfolded in mere seconds, though it felt like hours had flashed by. Latymer’s instincts roared for him to jump into the fray. But his physical strength was diminishing so quickly that he didn’t even know if he could keep his seat for much longer, let alone engage in a physical battle. But he must find a way to rescue his son. 

Panicked now, a solution seemed beyond his reach. Latymer rubbed his burning forehead.
Think, think. Dammit, think!